Free Surrogate – a psychological thriller by Tim Adler Page B

scar on her wrist. A thick one, too. Looks like she put her hand through a window or something." I left the implication that Alice might have taken a knife to herself hanging in the air. I couldn't get that thick jagged scar out of my mind. There had been nothing about it in her medical record. "The point is," I said, changing the subject, "is she the right one for us?"
    "Well, she certainly doesn't beat around the bush. She's straightforward, and I like that. I suspect she can be moody, but in the end, it doesn't really matter because we're just renting her womb." She gave me a look. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be crude. So, to answer your question, yes, I liked her. I think we're going to get along just fine."
    I did not share Mole's confidence. Something was not quite right about Alice Adams, something I couldn't put my finger on. A lawyer friend once described this sensation as "typing one key to the left". That was how I felt about Alice Adams. Watching her walk off, I felt as if I had been buzzed by a dangerous fish, a shark or a stingray perhaps, its tail waving as it disappeared into the gloom.

Chapter Eight
    Mole went down to Wiltshire early the following week to give her egg sample, while I was booked in to visit the Arlington Clinic on Friday. Sperm apparently did not keep as well as a woman's eggs. Alice would have to be impregnated with Emily's fertilised egg on the same day as I provided my sperm sample, otherwise the semen would lose its potency.
    I remember that Friday morning very well. Like most arguments, it began out of nothing. I was standing in the hall checking the mail on the table where we kept keys and stuff like that when I noticed a more interesting envelope along with the bills. It felt like an invitation. Slitting it open with my thumb, I saw it was indeed an invitation to attend the memorial service for victims of Dutch Marquez at St Paul's Cathedral. There was talk in the office that the prime minister would attend along with the Prince of Wales. I was snobbishly delighted to be sent an invite, even if it was for such a solemn occasion, and I had a vision of glimpsing the prime minister's head between two pillars.
    "Darling, we've been sent an invitation to the memorial service at St Paul's, the one I was telling you about," I said, walking down the hall.
    Mole was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher. "When is it again, you did tell me," she said, closing the door.
    "End of July. The prime minister's going to be there and probably one of the Royals. Of course, we'll be sitting at the back in the cheap seats, but it could be interesting. There'll be press there. We might even end up on TV. Anyway, it will give me a chance to introduce you to Nigel Rosenthal and Brian Sibley. They've heard so much about you, and I want to show you off."
    "You go if you like. I don't want to."
    "Now hang on." I could feel my hackles starting to rise. "I've never asked you to do anything work-related before. All I'm asking is that you accompany me to this memorial service ... for goodness’ sake, it's a national event."
    "There's nothing stopping you going if you want to," Mole said, brushing past me. I reached out to stop her. In hindsight, that was a mistake.
    "I'm not asking you, I'm telling you," I said. I felt myself becoming heated with anger. For months she had been needling me about the responsibility the company had towards the victims' families – it was the one sore point in our relationship – and now she was being a hypocrite. "You keep reminding me of how awful it was all those people died, yet the moment you're asked to do something, you back away.
    She stopped and turned, and I was startled by how angry she was. I quailed as she unleashed the full force of her fury onto me. She yanked her arm away.
    "And what about you? More than a hundred people died that night and yet you treat this as a PR opportunity. All you ever think about is what's best for your company, how is this going to affect my